The Road To Geezerville

I used to have a big fro. Even bigger when ma pressed it out. Looked like a dandelion puff as a kid. Now I’ve got a figure 8 mown by Smurfs at the crown and forehead. If I bend over at night and light hits it people panic at large cat’s eyes.

But geezerville doesn’t start with losing it.

Geezerville starts with getting it.

The new growth. Hair loss is no big deal till you realize you’re not losing it, it’s just sucking in through your scalp and coming out somewhere else, apparently going through bleach by-products because it comes out white. Bleach or fear, but as it seems to happen mostly at night when I’m dreaming about Pam Grier’s loofah, I lean toward the internal bleach theory. The gray hairs in my nose I was cool with till they started looking like an albino caterpillar cowering in there. But what immediately got me and pushed me on my grown-up tricycle ride toward Geezerville were the damned hairs coming out my ears. Why in the hell at 43 am I growing antlers out my ears?! There is no physiological reason for a virile man to grow hairs not only sticking out of but standing proudly upon the upper edges of his ears. None whatsoever. They serve no purpose beyond letting people know this is an old fuck. Nobody needs to know that I’m an old fuck till I’m an old fuck…which I’m not! My long term memory might be Windows but my short term memory is still a Mac. I’m mature. I clearly remember not having hairs coming out of my ears.

I clearly remember not needing the morning ritual of clipping thick gray nose hairs. There were never wild eyebrow strands that grew four inches and left welts on my face in the wind. I didn’t need to do foot stretches before stepping out of bed for fear of breaking my heel bone.

It wasn’t that long ago that I was virile. Really.

There’s a new TV show called “Men of A Certain Age”. I taped it but haven’t watched it. I might not ever watch it. There’s enough happening in life that I don’t need extra things depressing me. I taped it thinking I’d get some sense of community, that the Club of the Aged would welcome me in its understanding arms. Then I said no. I am not old. This is not denial. Hell, the gray hairs are all over my face. The pudge is stuck tighter than superglue. I might be on the road to Geezerville…but I ain’t the mayor of the city yet. The certain age I’m at doesn’t jibe with what’s happening to my body. I’m wearing bifocals, ma! One day I could see up close; the next day I was squinting. Let me put ??? here ‘cause that ain’t right! Caterpillars up my nose, antlers out my ears, and now I’m Mr. Magoo?! Practically overnight?!! I. Say. Thee. Nay.

Am I that cliché of the guy the hot chicks call “sir”? I have no interest in vapid 20-somethings, but what if Susan Sarandon calls me? Am I supposed to interact with her as a peer rather than the young dude fawning over her hotness? And what about crotchety-ness? I was always crotchety but I was young with my crotch. The Road to Geezerville hardens crotch; makes it annoying rather than endearing. Young crotch, endearing; old crotch, not so much.

As a tangent, sex—-while it could mean muscle spasms, butt cheek locks or other errant cramps—-never meant worrying about throwing a back out.

…Big… honking… sigh…

I’m on the Road to Geezerville without warning and apparently without brakes. What is it they say about aging gracefully? They never say it with albino caterpillars nestled in their nostrils.

Of that I’m for damn sure.

But hey, I gotta do what I do, right? Snip ‘em, curl ‘em, pluck ‘em, manage it in the eyes of hot chicks and the Lord. Hottest chick is the Wife, right? She doesn’t want some old dude leering at her through the shower curtain. Even though the Wife is older than me she will always be hotter. She deserves to be peeped at through the shower curtain.

Since I’m going blind it helps that I have a clear shower curtain.

The lesson, my friends: work with what you’ve got. No off ramps on the road to geezerville. The best you can hope for is a helluva view to help pass the time in a rather pleasing, soapy fashion. The Wife shaves the gray off the back of my neck then goes all PG-13 or even R on me. This means my tricycle is tricked out with red and blue streamers and flame decals. When I spin out I might tumble Arte Johnson style (wiki “Laugh In” you young fucks) but I’m still--here, today, now--cool.

Maybe my caterpillars will turn into bee-yootiful butterflys.